


You've Got To Be Kitten Me...

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amateur Chef Enjolras, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Helpful Enjolras, Law Student Enjolras, M/M, Macaron the Cat, One Shot, POV Grantaire, Painter Grantaire, Short Grantaire, kitten shenanigans, really I just wanted to write about pasta, tall enjolras, well... pre-law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: Grantaire finds a kitten stuck in the wall of his apartment, and the only person who comes over to help him handle it is Enjolras. He doesn't know the first thing about taking care of a kitten, but he does know that he had hoped ever-so-slightly that it would be Enjolras who would come and help him.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 110





	You've Got To Be Kitten Me...

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Grantaire’s apartment was eclectic, to put it gently. 

Heaps of books he’d meant to read, recommended by friends and bookstore clerks, teetered on top of furniture and in off-kilter stacks on the floor. Mugs littered coffee tables and armrests, some half-full of coffee, others with stagnant paint water, still others set out to collect water that dripped from the ceiling; the only way to really tell was to take a sip, and it wasn’t worth the risk of a mouthful of watercolors or ceiling-water. 

To put it not-so-gently, the place was a wreck. 

There were melon-sized holes in the walls from where the previous owner had—well, Grantaire never inquired exactly what had happened to the walls, but from the sheer number of them, it had to be something not very nice. The ceiling leaked, but it was managed by an ever-evolving system of mugs, cups, and bowls scattered around. Jackets piled up to waist-height by the door, in a thousand different states of cleanliness and presentability. It was the sort of place you could get lost in, despite the space being only about 500 square feet split between a cramped bedroom, a standing-room-only bathroom, and the living room/kitchen/art studio that occupied the vast amount of space. 

But it was home, and it suited Grantaire well enough. What other place could he reach a hand down and grab a paintbrush _and_ a scarf _and_ a book about insects native to northern France? 

Grantaire was waist-deep in work that day, hunched over his tiny wooden desk set up by the only window in the apartment that opened enough to let in a significant breath of air. His hands were covered in charcoal, black and grey smudges tracked up the side of his arm as he slipped into the mindset that only a really good project could put him in. He was so lost in thought, in the dance of light and dark on the page, that he almost missed the quiet _thump_ from the far corner of the room.

He didn’t miss it, though he did briefly consider disregarding it in favor of finishing his piece. Muscles groaning with the effort of standing up after too many hours sitting, he picked his way through the maze of things and began investigating. 

The sound had, ostensibly, come from the corner with the biggest hole in the wall, the one he tried to keep covered with a stack of spare canvasses and sketchbooks. He shifted aside the pile with a bit of effort, sending a slow cascade of wood and cloth to the floor, and dropped to a crouch to peer into the wall. 

A pair of wide, frightened eyes stared back at him. 

“A kitten? No way.” He could hear the disbelief in his own voice, even though he was staring at the evidence in the dusty wall and the evidence was blinking dubiously at his words. Sighing, already regretting standing up from his stool by the window, he leaned closer to the wall. The kitten retreated as he got closer, but before it could scamper away into the crawl space, he grabbed it around the middle and hauled it into the light. It blinked at him more, indignant in its exposure. 

It suddenly dawned on him that he was standing in the middle of his apartment, holding a patchy-furred kitten up by the scruff. _Oh._ It wasn’t like he had any prior experience with animals—one time, when he was around sixteen, he and Bahorel caught a salamander by the creek behind the bakery and kept it in a hatbox for three days, until it ran away. _How similar are cats and salamanders?_ He held the squirming animal up higher, checking out the tufts of fur on the tips of its ears and the distinctly non-amphibious nature of it. He guessed not at all, probably. 

He lowered the kitten from where he’d held it, cradling it closer to his chest. It was tiny, maybe a kilogram at most, and trembling like a leaf in a rainstorm. As far as kittens go, it seemed fairly amiable: there was no hissing, or scratching, or yowling, or whatever else it was that angry cats did. 

Then it occurred to him he had no clue what to do from here. So he did what he usually did when life went sideways: texted his friends. 

>>you: _hey guys_  
>>you: _guess what i found_

He wove his way over to the couch, shoving aside a pile of crochet hats Joly had been working on when he was last over, and plopped down, settling the kitten in his lap and snapping a picture. 

>>you: Attachment: 1 Image 

The kitten curled up between his legs, stretching out tiny paws and digging pinprick claws into his thighs through his jeans.

“Hey! Ow,” he said softly, unhooking the needles from his leg. 

>>Je-Han Solo: _oh my god_  
>>Je-Han Solo: _R oh my god_  
>>Je-Han Solo: _HOW DID YOU GET A KITTEN????_

>>you: _it was in the wall, i got it out. someone pls come help_

>>Je-Han Solo: _bro i so would but_  
>>Je-Han Solo: _classes_

The rest of his friends responded with similar sentiments, citing labs or classes or, in Bossuet’s case, another short stay in the emergency room. The only person who hadn’t answered yet was Enjolras, who if Grantaire remembered correctly had his Political History and Government lecture around this time, but he wouldn’t answer, anyways. Grantaire almost caught himself wishing he would come help him figure out what to do with the feline pawing at the rip in the knee of his pants. . He sighed, and switched tabs to check the five or so links to cat websites Combeferre had already sent him, detailing care, feeding, litter—oh, God, right, that was a part of caring for a cat, and the cost of all of this. 

He whistled quietly between his teeth. That was a sizable sum. 

The kitten leapt off his lap, landing between two piles of newspapers and magazines that absolutely dwarfed it, and set out on tottery legs to explore the apartment. 

Grantaire watched it idly for a few moments, wobbling around wide-eyed, making quiet trilling noises as it bumped into new obstacles, and then realized if it had gotten into the wall before, it could probably do it again, and scrambled to his feet. 

He gathered an armful of canvasses and set about to cover every hole, keeping one eye on the tiny black-and-white shape as it wandered about, tail twitching as it circled the couch. When he’d gotten a cover over every single place the kitten could slip back into the walls, fourteen within reach of the kitten, he allowed himself to sit back down and dig out his laptop to research what to do about the ball of fur currently amusing itself with a tassel dangling from a fan mounted on the wall, crafted some years before by Feuilly and bestowed upon him as a gift. 

Before he could even get the password typed in, there came a soft knock at the door. He wracked his memory briefly, trying to think of a package or another delivery that could have been scheduled for today, and came up blank. 

It was a few short steps to the door, and he considered making a halfhearted attempt to straighten up, but decided against it. 

He should have at least moved the pile of jackets from the doorway. 

Enjolras leaned against the doorframe, a mask of calm disinterest across his features dissolving into thinly veiled surprise and… happiness? when Grantaire opened the door. 

They stared at each other, wordless, the silence only broken when the kitten wiggled around Grantaire’s ankles and made a run for the stairwell. 

“Woah!” Enjolras said, turning on his heel and lunging for the streak of fur, scooping it naturally up against his heart like he’d done it a thousand times. 

Grantaire gaped at him. 

“Um,” Enjolras said, turning the kitten to look it in the eyes as it made a swipe for a lock of hair that had tumbled from his ponytail. “I guess this is the kitten, then?” His tone was even, composed as always, but the yellowed light of the hallway danced off his eyes in the same way the lamps in the Musain did when he was joking around with the Amis, and Grantaire grinned at him involuntarily. 

“Come on in, Apollo.” 

Enjolras slipped through the door frame, stepping around the pile of clothes, and it came to Grantaire that this was the first time he’d ever been in his apartment. He didn’t walk like it, though, navigating the labyrinthine floor pattern with deft, easy movements, coming to the cramped kitchenette without stumbling over one of the loose flowerpots scattered around the room that served as receptacles for crumpled-up pieces of paper. He plopped the kitten down gently next to the toaster and stared at it. 

“So,” Grantaire said, moving to stand beside him and watch the kitten as well. He generally avoided thinking about how much taller than him Enjolras was, but here, his chin not even clearing his shoulder, it was unavoidable. Ordinarily, he would mind: when he was younger, being perpetually the only boy in the front row of class pictures had been a sore spot, but now, standing next to Enjolras, who smelled faintly of cinnamon and oranges, it didn’t bother him much. 

“So,” Enjolras agreed. The kitten made a tiny sound, a high-pitched _“mrrrp?”_ that made Grantaire let out a tiny gasp. 

“It needs to eat, right?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras scowled sideways at him. 

“ _It_ is a he, and yes, he does. Do you have… anything suitable for a cat?” He glanced dubiously around the kitchen, searching for something that looked like cat food, but Grantaire dropped to the floor and dug through a cabinet, retrieving a can of tuna after a few seconds. 

“Does this work?” he asked, holding it up with one hand and feeling around for a can opener with the other. 

Enjolras nodded, and then bent down to look through the other cabinets, knocking a small cascade of Tupperware lids into the floor as he opened the door. He looked apologetic, mouth opened to say something, but Grantaire quieted him with a wave of his hand and a “don’t worry, Enj, I’ve done much worse. A-ha!” He pulled the can opener triumphantly from the cabinet along with a small, shallow dish. 

“Dinnertime, kitten,” he said, and the way the tiny animal’s tail shot straight up in the air and waved with excitement made him smile in spite of himself. 

They set the dish in the corner, along with a bowl of water, and then retreated to the couch to talk. Grantaire sheepishly swept sundry objects into the floor, only cluttering it marginally more and gesturing for Enjolras to sit. 

Enjolras folded his legs underneath himself before he sat, leaning sideways against the armrest and fiddling with the fringe on one of the blankets thrown haphazardly over the back cushion. “Is this Joly’s crocheting? I think I recognize the pattern,” he remarked, tracing the delicate spirals in a dozen shades of green. Grantaire nodded, fondly remembering the package the boy had sent him as soon as he learned that Grantaire had found somewhere off-campus to settle. 

They sat in silence for a few moments before Grantaire had the good sense to slap the top of the stereo, knocking it out of its slumber and back into belting out Tchaikovsky. They sat in silence again, this time melted through with the warm, caramelly waltz-meter of the second movement. 

“Why’d you come?” Grantaire blurted out, and for the first time he could remember, Enjolras looked startled, jamming his hands into the pockets of the dark red university sweatshirt he was wearing. 

“You texted, and I wanted to come help you.” While it was probably the truth—Enjolras was too genuine of a person to lie to his face like that—it sounded choked, like it was only part of the truth. He debated asking more, but Enjolras was already blushing, a dusting of deep pink appearing high on his cheekbones, and Grantaire decided not to. 

He dug through his thoughts for something to ask; Enjolras was actually here, in his apartment, sitting arms-length away on his couch, the one he and Bahorel snatched off the curb, not even bothering to take the “FREE” sign off of it before heaving it into the bed of Bahorel’s older brother’s truck. 

He asked the only thing he could think of: “What should we name the cat?” 

Then he began mentally kicking himself for saying _we_ , but the smile that spread across Enjolras’s lips, crinkling his eyes up at the corners, made him pause in his self-flagellation. 

“Paris?” Enjolras suggested, and Grantaire wrinkled his nose. 

“Not Paris, we’re not basic. He was in the wall, what about Remy?” 

“The rat from that pasta movie? No way.” Enjolras tried to sound disdainful, but the laughter he was stifling bubbled up. 

“Liberté.” 

_“Apollo, no.”_

“Why not? It’s a perfectly respectable name. How about Apollo, then? It’s what you call me.” 

“How conceited do you have to be to want to name a kitten _I_ found after the nickname _I_ gave you?” 

“Apparently, very,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire snorted. “How about Macaron? He’s small, soft, um,” he scraped the bottom of the barrel of reasons to name the kitten this, “could be made of almond flour?” 

Grantaire laughed, loud enough for it to echo around the room. He didn’t know the acoustics here would amplify it that much, which was probably a sad testament to how much he laughed in his own home. “I love it.” He turned over one shoulder to check on the kitten, still chowing down on the tuna in the dish in the kitchen. “Co-cat dads?” he asked, sticking his hand out in a joking manner. 

Enjolras grabbed it with a surprising amount of sincerity. “Co-cat dads,” he repeated, staring Grantaire in the eyes. 

_Oh._ A tingle of electricity coursed through Grantaire, and he could swear he felt the temperature in the room change. The sunset outside reflected golden off of Enjolras’s long, curly hair, parts of it cascading around his shoulders after escaping from his ponytail, and all Grantaire could think was _pretty_. 

The silence thickened with the expectation of something _more_ , and with a start Grantaire realized Enjolras was slowly leaning closer, had somehow come closer on the couch as they fired names back and forth. His eyes were wide, “stop me if you don’t want this” painted across his features, and rather than say anything, Grantaire leaned in the rest of the way. 

The violins swelled on the radio like the soundtrack to a cheesy romantic movie, and he felt Enjolras’s hand tighten in his own as his lips parted. Enjolras tasted like cinnamon and oranges, just like his sweatshirt smelled, and Grantaire caught himself smiling ever-so-slightly into the kiss as he slid his free hand up Enjolras’s side to tangle in his hair, tilting his head to capture his bottom lip at a better angle. 

His mind drifted as they kissed, floating away in ecstasy and shock, and he found himself remembering his dream last night: this exact moment, but with far less kitten and far more immediate recoil from Enjolras, who stormed out after Grantaire kissed him. 

_Not the case,_ he thought, as Enjolras let out a quiet sound and pulled away slowly, pecking Grantaire once on the corner of his mouth before sitting back, eyes half-lidded. 

The silence returned, this time with the hushed peace of just before the sun slipped under the horizon, when the world quieted down. 

Macaron trotted around the corner and dug his tiny claws into Grantaire’s pant leg, and the moment was gone, but their hands were still connected, and Grantaire had a million questions. 

Enjolras spoke before he could ask any of them, his voice soft and warm. “I guess you want to know how long _that’s_ been in the works,” he said, trailing off with a laugh. Grantaire nodded. He took a deep breath before saying, “years. Years and years. Too many to count, probably, but I didn’t figure it out until so recently.” His brow furrowed. “How about,” he began, before pausing to scoop Macaron up off the floor with his free hand. “How about you?” 

“Forever,” Grantaire said, and it was the truth. Then his stomach grumbled, and Enjolras stifled a laugh. 

“Hey,” he began, “since we’re now officially cat-dads-in-crime, do you want to—” “Wait, are we…” “Do you want to be…?” 

They stopped talking over each other, and Grantaire took a steadying breath. 

“My dear Apollo, I would like nothing more, except maybe some pasta right now, but if you’re second only to pasta, count yourself a lucky man. So. Pasta?” 

Enjolras’s eyes went wide as he processed, then he leaned forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “Pasta.” 

The apartment had never smelled so good. Apparently, Enjolras had been hiding his talent at cooking for as long as Grantaire had known him, because he was turning the years-old gluten free fettuccine from the back of the pantry, a can of bacon bits, and a bag of freezer-burned frozen peas into the most incredible-smelling fettuccine carbonara Grantaire had ever had the joy of being in the same room as. 

He dug through the tiny hall closet for a serviceable basket, tossing aside a bright yellow plastic monstrosity and something that looked like it was made of hair before finding a cozy wicker number. He scooped two of the hats Joly had made up and nestled them in before nabbing Macaron from his spot underneath Enjolras’s feet and setting him in the basket. 

When Grantaire looked up, Enjolras was smiling at them both fondly, and he had the brief, horrifying thought that this could all be a dream, because it was so _sudden_ , so unreal, and then Enjolras was holding out a spoonful of pasta sauce for Grantaire to taste, and it was creamy and garlicky in a way only real things can be. 

And when Enjolras kissed him on the top of his head as he scooped two heaping piles of pasta into mismatched bowls, Grantaire knew it was real life, because only real life could take a turn like this. They set Macaron’s basket between them on the card table that served as a dining room table. 

“Tomorrow, we should take him to the vet,” Enjolras suggested, “I’ll text the boys that I’m staying here so we can go over early.” He spoke nonchalantly, but as soon as he realized what he’d implied his eyes went wide again. Grantaire was starting to notice that whenever Enjolras was unsure, his eyes got wide, and he wondered for a moment why he’d never seen it in the past before realizing he’d probably never seen Enjolras uncertain. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Enj, stay the night, _but_ you owe me one debate on whatever nonsense topic I want.” He grinned broadly. “I love debating with you.” 

Enjolras smiled at him, shoulders relaxing. He cocked his head to the side, then pulled his hair down out of its ponytail, sending it tumbling over his shoulders in unruly curls. “I meant to ask, was all the arguing just, like, flirting?” He looked genuinely concerned for a moment. 

Grantaire laughed, twirling a big forkful of pasta up neatly before answering. “It was flirting, but I also just like to debate with you?” 

Enjolras blushed. “Good. I, um,” he paused, reaching out to scratch Macaron behind the ears. “I like debating with you, too.” 

If somehow their confession that they genuinely enjoyed arguing with one another was more awkward than their confession of genuine romantic feelings, then that was par for the course. The rest of the evening passed with jokes, and stories, and, once Grantaire cracked out one of the bottles of wine he kept in the closet (“For special occasions,” he’d insisted, and Enjolras had just laughed and found cups to pour it in), a very giggly, blurry selfie sent to all their friends off of Enjolras’s phone, featuring the two of them holding Macaron’s basket up for the camera and grinning ear-to-ear, captioned “cat dads.” 

Grantaire’s bed was big enough for two, once they moved the plastic Jack-o-lantern and bin of fake flowers off of the left side. Enjolras just shook his head as they rearranged, and slipping into bed together held none of the awkwardness of the earlier evening. 

It turns out, Macaron snored in his sleep. And so did Enjolras.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please drop some kudos and/or comments below, or leave me a song recommendation in the comments! This is the first one-shot I've written for Les Mis, so any feedback you can offer would be most appreciated! 
> 
> Though my cat looks nothing like Macaron, you can see a few pics of her [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/search/willow) on Tumblr. If you liked this, maybe check out my other Les Mis fic, [Caught In The Crossfire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292466)?
> 
> Have a lovely day!


End file.
